


Sailing

by Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus



Category: The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: A bit of a vent fic tbh, A bit of a whump, Bittersweet, Character Study, Dealing with grief in a healthy way, Diary/Journal, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I guess???, Memories, maybe????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 13:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20489753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus/pseuds/Shadowy_Dumbo_Octopus
Summary: An entry from Drizzt's journal, written sometime after "The Starless Night" expanding on something I really wish RAS had touched on more in his writing.Or, in other words, the kid misses his dad: the fic.





	Sailing

**Author's Note:**

> I lost my dad last year (thanks, brain cancer and fuck you too) and some of the things Drizzt writes about are something I have been either told by the guy who helped me cope with my emotions (thanks, Joe. I owe you a lot, my man) or that I've experienced firsthand. 
> 
> This is kind of a vent fic to help me through the latest bout of The Sads. Since Drizzt has been a massive part of my life growing up, and the relationship between him and his dad always made me emotional - especially now that I can fucking relate - I thought that I could project my grief onto him, because self-care and also a bit of character analysis.
> 
> By the way, I refuse to accept "Timeless" as canon because what the FUCK do you mean they didn't hug?! Fuck you, RAS, both we AND them deserved a hug AT THE VERY LEAST.

When you lose a loved one, you are told that grief is like sailing; it comes at you in waves as you desperately struggle to keep your tiny, pitiful ship from sinking. At first, the waves feel like they never stop, like they will eventually swallow you whole. You do not know how to sail or navigate. Ropes slip out from your hands and the sail is stolen away by the wind. Eventually, the only thing you can do is curl up under the deck and wait for the storm to pass.

Over time, you learn how to sail, how to navigate the sea you have found yourself stranded on so abruptly. The waves do not appear as tall and overwhelming like they used to, and you find that they hit you less and less frequently, so that months, even years pass by before you encounter anything but flat, silent waters. When they do find you, you know how to cope, how to prevent them from washing you off the deck and plunging you deep into the abyss of despair.

However, none of this means that the pain stops completely.

Sometimes when I train with my scimitars, going through the steps and parries that have kept me alive for so many years, I stumble or backstep a little too soon, and I swear that I can almost hear a voice deep from my past saying: “You move like a drunken bugbear. Come on, get up and try again, slower this time.”

I miss my father. Even though our time together was seldom pleasant due to the circumstances, often I pause my routine, set my weapons down and remember the way he laughed, or the way he would put his hand on my shoulder when I finally did something well. I remember him trying to teach me to aim with the hand crossbow – a weapon all drow know like the back of their hand. I was atrocious at it, and I am not afraid of admitting it now. The recoil always threw me off and the bolt always, every single time hit too far to the right, even if I adjusted my arm accordingly. My aim is better now; after practising archery with Montolio and, later, with Catti-brie, I have found myself quite an adept marksman. Although a longbow is not a hand crossbow, I like to think that Zaknafein would have been impressed if he ever saw how my skills have grown, that he would have been proud of me.

Every time I master a new skill or execute a particularly excellent (if I do say so myself) sequence of blows, a small part of me yearns to hear his voice again, even though I barely remember the sound of it so many years later. I do not like to dwell on it for too long, though; pondering the fact that the person who used to mean so much to you, who gave you life, and then gave you his own to save you not once, but twice… that they are slipping away from your memory like smoke through your fingers, that the details you have sworn to yourself you would never forget are slowly yet inevitably fading away…

…It hurts.

Gods almighty, it hurts.

Sometimes I walk by a mirror, lost in thought or conversation, and pause, all breath leaving my body, because I think that I see him in the corner of my eye, that he somehow defied all odds and returned from the place no one leaves. Every time, it turns out to be nothing but my reflection.

It astounds me how much I resemble him; it is almost as if there was no trace of Malice in my being. I find this comforting at times, that I carry a piece of him with me at all times, that I can see him again every time I look into a mirror. Other times, it only makes me miss him more.

In Menzoberranzan, there exists a fighting drill named “Meiera’s Spider.” Zaknafein used to explain it to me using a drawing: a spider (obviously), with four sets of numbers on each of its legs: one number by its thorax, two on the joints, and the last one on the tip. Every number was assigned a place where you had to strike: one was the head, two and three were both sides of the neck, four and five were the armpits, six was for the legs, seven was for the stomach, and eight for the heart. You started on a number closest to the spider’s body and moved in a circle until you came back to the number you started. Then, you moved up a segment and started again until you were done with all the numbers and so tired that you could barely lift up your swords.

Zaknafein liked to alternate the direction we used to keep me on my toes, or sometimes he would start on the tips of the spider’s legs and then moved inwards. We did it so many times that those numbers haunted my dreams afterwards, the spider chasing me until I stood and fought, executing each blow and parry perfectly. I thought that I would never forget that nightmarish beast back then; now I almost wish for it to return, to face me once more so that the numbers would stop fading from my memory no matter how hard I try to recreate them.

Was it 1, 5, 8, 6, 4, 2,7 and 3, or 1, 5, 8, 3, 4, 2,7 and 6? Did a number only have to appear once? Was this sequence part of the original drawing, or one that Zak had invented himself? I do not remember.

It is the little things that hurt us the most, like not remembering the sound of his laughter or a stupid sequence of blows and parries. Back when I was teaching Wulfgar to fight, I had moments when I repeated things Zak had said to me word for word, even lapsing back into drow (much to my friend’s bemusement.) As soon as that happened, I quickly called for a break until my hands stopped shaking and my chest no longer ached.

I wonder if my father would have liked Wulfgar, or indeed, the rest of my friends. They are not drow, but I do not think that that would be a problem for someone like him. Hells, I reckon that Wulfgar could simply mention the time when we defeated the white dragon together, or when he singlehandedly defeated a yochlol to earn my father’s respect and admiration. Catti-brie would have impressed him as well, I like to think; she still won’t let me live down the time she threw a stalactite straight into the roof of House Baenre’s chapel to save me, and I have to live with the knowledge that I will never do anything that could anger the Spider Queen more than that (aside from continuing to stay alive, that is.) Bruenor would have gotten along well with him too, though I wonder what Zak, who always drilled into my head to take care of my weapons, would think about my friend’s battleaxe, sporting so many notches that one could use it as a wood saw if they were creative enough. Some disagreements would ensure, I believe.

I smile as I write this, but my heart aches with grief because none of this could ever happen.

I miss Zaknafein, I miss all the time we spent together, and I weep for the time we could have had if not for my mother’s cruelty and unquenched ambition. I wish that I could see him again, hear his voice and see that fondness in his eyes, identical to mine in everything but the colour. I wish that I could embrace him, apologise for everything I did and did not do, for wanting to kill him back when I was young and knew nothing of the world around me. I wish that I could sit down with him and tell him of my adventures, of the enemies I have bested and the friends I have met. I wish I could tell him of Belwar, Montolio, of my dear friends who have helped me to become the person I am today. I long to hear him laugh, to slap me on the shoulder and say how proud he is of me. I wish I could spar with him again, or to raise our blades against a shared enemy, not just each other.

I do not remember ever fighting beside, not against him.

Although now that I have left Menzoberranzan and recognise that my time there was riddled with terror and abuse, I sometimes almost wish that I could turn back time, just so I could return to those days armed with the perspective I have gained now. I would do so many things, say so many things, leave so many things unsaid, appreciate the time I was given with my mentor and father so much more than I did as a child, now that I know how little I truly got to know him. I always let these fantasies burn themselves out, knowing that I could never go back even if I truly wanted to, so there is little point in them aside from making me nostalgic for times that do not deserve it.

Still, I would give everything I have for even an hour with my father, just to tell him how much impact he had on my life. How important he is to me. How much I miss him even after so many years. I remember him saying that he could never leave the Underdark in favour of the Surface. “Where would I go?” he had asked. I would reply, tell him of all the goodness I have found there, of the friends who did not shun me for the colour of my skin, but accepted me for the person I am underneath; the person he had helped to shape. How I wish that he were there to see how wrong he was! How I wish

_[The next few lines are scribbled out, the ink blurred by what appears to be tears.]_

How I wish to have him in my life again.

When you lose a loved one, you are told that grief is like sailing, that it becomes easier to live with over time, that the waves become less and less overwhelming as you learn to cope with them. I must say, being a seasoned sailor myself, that even though the waves hit a lot less frequently, whenever one does hit, it always feels like the first. Maybe it is because I experience time differently as an elf, maybe it is because I was only given proper tools to deal with my grief relatively recently, but the pain never lessens, the regrets do not disperse. I don’t think they ever will, though the people I have spoken about it to tell me that the pain never truly goes away – you just learn to live with it. Coping with grief is difficult, and I am grateful to have people in my life who are there for me on every step of the way, but sometimes I look at them and can’t help but feel Zaknafein’s absence all the more.

I try not to dwell on it too much, to focus on the present and live my life to the fullest instead of looking back and mourning my past, but such is the nature of waves; they always come eventually, and all you can do is brace yourself. Nowadays, I am proud to say that I try to face them head-on instead of fleeing below the deck to wait them out, and even though this approach is a lot more painful than simply shutting myself off like I used to do, I find that once the sea is calm once more, I feel at peace. Sad, yes, but also at peace. Dealing with one’s emotions is healthier than repressing them, and even though it hurts, in the end you actually feel better.

I still miss Zaknafein, and I don’t think there will ever come a time when I won’t, but I prefer to smile about all the time we had than mourn the time we didn’t and live every day of my life in a way that would make him proud.

And, everything be damned, I will remember that thrice-cursed sequence!

-Drizzt Do’Urden

**Author's Note:**

> The "Meiera's Spider" is based on "The Meyer's Square," which is something I've learned about in my history reenactment group as we trained swordfighting. It is a fighting drill from Meyer's book he wrote circa 1570, and works in basically the same way as Drizzt describes except the numbers are assigned differently, there are only four of them, and the whole thing is a, well, square instead of a spider, but you know how drow are - anything for the #aesthetic.
> 
> Here, there's where you can read a bit about it, though I suppose that you could just Google "The Meyer's Square" if you really want to:  
https://www.keithfarrell.net/blog/2017/05/meyers-four-openings-drill-aka-meyers-square/


End file.
